Steps They Take, Steps They Miss
by Ekanite
Summary: Falling in love is a lot like falling down the stairs-bumpy, achy, painful, and, if you're a bit twisted, exhilarating. They're pretty twisted. A collection of completely uncorrelated HPDM drabbles. Warnings included for each chapter.
1. Sunday Seduction

_Disclaimer: J.K Rowling is the marvelous mind behind the miracle that is _Harry Potter,_ not I._

_Excerpt/Summary: "Persimmon," he corrects into his dark stubble. "Persimmon."_

_Warnings: Smuff (light smut, heavy fluff)_

**XxXxX**

Harry's grinning at him and bouncing on the balls of his feet, daft as usual. Draco feels a surge of affection for him, obviously not completely innocent, either, since he hardens in the Muggle trousers he's put on just for Harry. His eyes flick down to his crotch with all the subtlety of a jackhammer, and he's suddenly all bashful and it's quite charming, in that accidental way of his. "You, erm, look good," he offers hoarsely.

Draco won't make this easy for him—that would be no fun.

"Do I really?" He asks, studying the perfect crescents of his nails. Of course he does, but there's no harm in fishing for compliments when they're swimming about so readily.

"Erm, yeah. I mean, unusually so. Not that you don't look good all the time, but, I dunno." He wonders how he can talk with his chin tucked so far down into his neck like that. He's not quite articulate, though. Good thing those great green eyes of his, glimmering up at Draco from under dark lashes, get the point across better than his mouth does. His mouth. Hm. It should be on his about right now, shouldn't it?

"How so?" He challenges. The corner of his mouth lifts in a silky, teasing smirk.

Harry regains enough of his composure to smirk back. He sidles around the counter, pressing his lovely arse to it a bit more than he should (he's learning quick). He comes close to Draco and his thin body curves toward him, a frustrating asymptote in the way it lingers without touching.

"Maybe," he begins, breath tickling the fair hair at the base of Draco's neck, not even leaving time for him to wonder just when he got so near. "Maybe it's your shirt." His hands roam up and then spread, covetous, across Draco's chest, fingering pearly buttons and moving to push his sleeves to his elbows.

That smirk is looking as attractive as ever. His mouth is indubitably kissable as ever. His mouth, which is now speaking, which is delaying the kissing that needs to be happening. "You don't normally wear orange."

"Persimmon," he corrects into his dark stubble. "Persimmon. It was a dare, and only your Gryffindor influence made me take it and wear this gaudy thing."

"Sure," he agrees concisely, then grins down at him in the way Draco has learned means trouble, and swoops down on him, pinning him to the counter. Obviously it isn't quite as ugly as it seems, or maybe it's balanced by the tailored trousers that he might just be growing to like.

Draco shoves aside the dishes and debris hurriedly. The next second he is laid out flat amongst the remnants of lunch, arms and legs splayed out and Harry's warm weight pressing down on him.

He hasn't invited himself just for the lunch that he had ended up having to cook for an exhausted Harry. He did it gladly, a labor of…like, but he wanted his dessert. And today his dessert was looking deliciously vulnerable and tender above him, still in his creased Auror robes on account of those jobsworths forcing him to pull more than his fair share, working even on weekends. Weekends, Draco thinks angrily, that should be spent in his company.

They have just sacrificed so much to be together and yet aren't allowed enough time to properly, ah, thank each other. But now there it is plenty of time to show gratitude; it's half past three on a balmy Sunday, and the sunlight sifting through the dust motes is doing funny things to Draco, making him feel all…warm and fuzzy, and it's decidedly unnatural. He'll just go with it, it's simpler for him to follow his instincts, and while Slytherins aren't the floofy type, they are certainly the type to take the easy way out.

And being with Harry is so easy, so right, and although with such a rotten beginning, their story will never be a fairy tale, it is writing itself beautifully now.

The day feels sleepy, but Draco is alert and thinking of plenty of other things Harry's bed will be good for. But at this rate, they might not even make it out of the kitchen.

Harry's hands are wandering over his body, undressing him with quiet urgency, and Draco is slipping off his heavy navy robes just as quickly. At last they fall to the floor, joined soon by Draco's persimmon button-up, and soon the only article of clothing between them is their pesky trousers. Draco got his on alright, but he admits that he wouldn't have been able to get himself out of them without help. Better Harry than his house-elf, certainly. Harry seems to be having trouble with it, though, and his fingers pause on the clasp.

Draco lifts his head and scowls at him from between his split, spread knees. "What?"

"You're not dressed like this just for kicks," Harry says matter-of-factly.

He could kick him. Draco hates being waiting on anything, especially sex. So he snaps back, "Dressing up can be fun, not that you would know, no matter how much I try and teach you—"

"—You only like dressing me up so you can undress me later—"

"If that's so wrong, get your hands off my belt, hypocrite." Draco meets his eyes and smiles despite himself. He levers himself up on his arms to offer up his throat for Harry to kiss, which he does with characteristic enthusiasm.

His lips are trailing a cloud-soft path across his Adam's apple when he pauses again. It's even more frustrating when he speaks now, with his mouth shifting against Draco's feverish skin. "What's the special occasion?"

"Your funeral, if you don't kiss me right this minute—"

"—I'm serious—"

"My arse-my neglected arse, might I add—you're serious, you've got a shit-eating grin—"

Their stubbornness tends to cancel out. "What's the special occasion?" Harry's mussed dark hair is tickling the most sensitive part of his pointed chin.

He could scream, but he answers in an impatient groan instead. "Just a Sunday seduction. Happy?"

"Incorrigibly so," Harry tells him, or at least he thinks that's what he says—his affectionate rasp is somewhat muffled by Draco's cock.

Best dare he ever took.

**XxXxX**

_Author's Note: Don't form any expectations about the rest of this series based on this drabble alone. There will be little to no continuity, and style, length, and of course quality will vary. Themes and motifs may be repeated, however. There will also be a multitude of genres and ratings, so I just chose the umbrella ones. _

_This is mostly a chance for me to get a feel for this fandom and see if I want to tackle a proper chapter-fic, and I won't continue it for long if it isn't well-received. I write for me, but I also write for others. Your input is important!_

_I'm still not entirely pleased with this. It was actually an impulse write, a spin-off from a darker piece just because…well, fluff is my oxygen. I will likely edit and subsequently re-update, though._

_But what are your thoughts, lovely readers? What did I do wrong, what did I do right? Please let me know in a review, and I'll do my best to reply as well. _


	2. Lay  Down  Claim

_Disclaimer: J.K Rowling is the marvelous mind behind the miracle that is _Harry Potter,_ not I._

_Excerpt/Summary: (his) Every (sick) desire will not be fulfilled (no matter how impressive a tantrum he throws). That should (but it doesn't) ease his hunger (starvation). Ownership (entitlement) has many definitions (that he chooses to ignore). This is how it is (this is how he sees it)._

_Warnings: confusing sentence structure/format and stream of consciousness, Harry/Ginny, Harry/Draco (indirectly) through Draco/Ginny, some Ginny bashing, non-con (not full sex), insane Draco_

**XxXxX**

He sees her in the Ministry lobby (it's set up for a wild bash for sure—doesn't that great cut glass bowl of dreary yellow punch indicate youthful abandon?). She turns the corner on his arm, both chuckling (this level of amusement is far over the limit for a stuffy government party).

Her laughter pipes out of her voluptuous chest like it's a music box (tinny and cyclical). Her long red hair is pinned back, flickering fiery under the warm light of the chandeliers (he would like nothing more than to yank it around and stuff it down her throat). She is (fucking) flawless today, (stomping over all the laws of good taste and common sense) in five inch heels and (slutty) short dress robes (cerise, like ninety nine percent of the color wheel, does not go with red hair and idiocy).

It's not her, he tells himself. It's him. He can't help but throw that (wretched) golden light of his over every (poor) soul he passes (he should really get that looked into, because it's been screwing him over for a decade now and his splintering mind could use a break, thanks).

He looks alright (he's already composed all the poetry he can manage so this will have to do, one word doing the work of thousands).

His shoes are interesting (-ly canoe-like) and his hair's slicked back a bit or something (now he looks like a marginally mollified hedgehog, instead of the usual indignant variety).

He chose (horrendous, unflattering, kitschy…need he go on?) purple accents for his robe to coordinate with his date (the golden couple hasn't sealed it with a ring just yet, so for now he doesn't have to taste the sour word "wife" even in his mind).

He (with all his glow, she is only his shadow) arrives (no, make an entrance, always) and takes his seat (throne, almost).

He makes a small (disgusted) sound in his throat and stifles it (further nauseated choking) with a swallow of (noxious) yellow punch (looks like urine, smells like urine, maybe isn't urine but he's not holding out much hope—it's the Ministry, after all, and since they're affiliated with the likes of him, what with the unfortunate shortening of his surname and all… speculation is possible).

She excuses herself (exactly thirteen minutes) later to use the ladies' (bitches' ) room. He is at once struck by an idea (beautiful and terrible as he himself is) and deems it suitable (sick perfection) and executable (yet never excusable). He moves into action (the wicked chess-master).

He wants him still (he can't remember a time when he hasn't, not really). He (wants to snag) sees his smile and hears his laughter (wants to lock it away in his chest, be a music box like her but play the tune for him alone). (his) Every (sick) desire will not be fulfilled (no matter how impressive a tantrum he throws). That should (but it doesn't) ease his hunger (starvation). Ownership (entitlement) has many definitions (that he chooses to ignore).

He puts his plan into action (with equal parts determination and despair). He is filled with glee (regret will come later). He will have him (finally, God, or perhaps Satan, finally) in this way, in this roundabout way (he doesn't really believe in beating about the bush, but beating about in her bush, where his fingers had tangled…)

He is waiting against the (cold, slimy, unhygienic but not as sordid as things to come) tile wall for her. They are alone here, everyone else off ("enjoying themselves" but not enough, obviously, since no one's copulating over the toilets) at the function.

She opens the stall door, one (ring free, he notes again, just for the tingle of triumph) hand on the door and one knotted in her hair. He steps away from the wall in one (predatory) stride and moves swiftly (quickness hard-won in grim years). He pins her against the wall (he'd like to record and replay the crack of her skull against the wall again and again).

She's still in shock (and he is, too, but he's always worked better under pressure) and he manages to reach for her hair and pull (yank and yank and he's always been one for pulling pigtails, but the slide of cotton-coarse strands in his hands is just too remarkable). Her (pretentious presumptuous pink) mouth gapes open. He fills it with his tongue.

He presses his mouth to hers (not so much kissing her as devouring her) harder and harder (as long as she lets him, and if she Is so submissive in bed, no wonder he thinks he loves her, the pillock).

He sweeps his tongue (inelegantly as a mop, for stooping to kiss her is stooping to kiss the floor) into every crevice (dark and moldy, likely, since he won't be nearly as thorough with snogging, busy as he is).

She is (supposedly) his (allegedly), but there is no evidence (try as he might, stroke after hurried hungry stroke of his tongue, he tastes nothing on his sensitive palate but saccharine, no hint of his spice or fullness or astringency). There is alcohol on her breath (she has clearly been drinking expensive firewhisky and dining on exquisite hor d'ouevres—why, then, does she taste cheap, cheap, cheap?) and perhaps this is why she lets him.

Not for long, though (he can't say he's disappointed). She snaps her head forward out of his hands (leaving them smarting and plastered with pulled ginger hairs). She tears her mouth away (and takes away a good shred of his lips, they must be more chapped than he thought). He thinks she'll just tear him from limb to limb now (and he'd almost let her, imagining the disappointment in eyes soft and green as moss). She doesn't (she does worse). She pushes him back and throws her head against the wall again and laughs and laughs, bitter and harsh and almost winding him (no, he thinks, no, he's the mad one here).

He has accomplished something (some accomplishment—perhaps some small insane fragment of this woman is his, but this is not a part he has touched). He has claimed her visibly (her lips are bite-red enough, but maybe he could assist her identification with one of those staked signs: a fancy toothpick stabbed through her lush lower lip would serve nicely).

Later (exactly fourteen minutes, twenty seven seconds later) there is pain within and without. There are green eyes (sharp and tearing like moss, tearing him like thorny leaves). There are words like "harassment" and "filing" and "charges" and "compensation" (they seem to be spoken to a stranger, so he disregards them).There are kisses (all for her and none for him) everywhere but the mouth (that is his, he thinks, and maybe he won't need the toothpick after all). There are curses (compared to the kisses, they are nothing and he cackles through them).

He almost forgets to smile (with his kiss-ripped lips) in the midst of the whole (glorious) mess (of his own doing).

They pick him up and drag him away, dangling between (two, because he is now too dangerous for one sole) guards. With his toes (fairy) pointed in the air, he should (but he doesn't quite) feel weightless, (not more burdened than ever) as they carry (not support) him.

(happiness would come, he thought, but at the moment it was muffled by exhaustion).

**XxXxX**

_Author's Note: I'm not sure exactly where this one came from, and I don't think I want to visit that particular dark corner of my subconscious again. _

_If you recognize the last line, it's because it's a barely-modified line from Deathly Hallows. Interpretation of that is left up to you._

_Please do share your thoughts. _


	3. Scrub

_Disclaimer: J.K Rowling is the marvelous mind behind the miracle that is _Harry Potter_, not I. _

_Excerpt/Summary: Your hand is poised over the last of the items, a Nose Biting Teacup, when he finally finishes not gloating and moves to exit the elevator. His pointy white shoe—its owner in miniature—poises over your hand, casting a threatening shadow over it as if he'd dare to grind his heel down. He's too much of a coward. He steps over it._

_Warnings: Second person point of view (and you, Harry, are in major denial), implied AU (from epilogue), language—sprinkled swears and slang, hinted double negatives, abundance of alliteration and ambiguity_

**XxXxX**

You're so busy _not noticing _him, courteously but determinedly refusing to acknowledge his malevolent presence, that you don't miss a thing.

His self-satisfied smirk, reflected three times over by the glass interior of the Ministry elevator.

His flax-fair hair isn't even close to brushing his impeccable collar, unlike your own crazy cowlicks.

His evidently expensive robes are the same cold, fishy grey of his eyes, with greeny flecks woven in, probably as some kind of nod to his origins in the vipers' den, as if it were anything to be proud of. You're fairly vanilla in your rumpled black robes, but it is tradition and this tradition is good and right, tried and tested, unlike him and his refined bad taste.

His blemish-free briefcase doesn't even have the grace to show work ethic, not displaying gluey sticker remnants or even fluffy frayed edges like your own.

Perfect. Ponce.

You don't stare or glare or smile uncomfortably. You don't. You maintain your distance, and it's been years so it's easy enough to do.

He stands only a foot from you but he is miles and miles from where you are.

You think it'd be best for both of you if he stayed there, because it isn't good for you to be close to him. Literally, not figuratively. You get twitchy and things. Too much history together isn't good for coworkers.

You're so busy _not noticing _him still that you can't be bothered to look ahead, either. The cool female voice rolls out and you're pulled out the sliding doors into the Atrium by force of habit. The slick of tile beneath your feet, regular, the dull roar of people at work, normal, cries of "Look out, Mr. Potter!" perfectly routine.

THUNK.

Your head now dully ringing, you pull back to look at your assailant, who did indeed warn you—a hapless assistant worker, hair fuzzy as your mind, who had, until seconds ago, been balancing a tottering pile of artifacts in her thin arms.

Her eyes flick to your scar, now helpfully highlighted by an egg-sized lump growing over it on your forehead.

You wince, half-apologetic and half pained, drop into a crouch, and hurry to help gather the artifacts. You're somewhat in the way, but the area is empty enough and you will observe polite behavior, unlike him, brazen bastard.

You don't look for his reaction. You don't wait for his jibe that doesn't come. You don't strain your ears to hear his snicker.

Your hand is poised over the last of the items, a Nose Biting Teacup, when he finally finishes not gloating and moves to exit the elevator. His pointy white shoe—its owner in miniature—poises over your hand, casting a threatening shadow over it as if he'd dare to grind his heel down. He's too much of a coward. He steps over it.

"Haven't lost it, Potter," he says with a sneer that you feel, zinging through your body, rather than see because you are _not_ looking.

He hasn't lost it, either. That is, whatever he had up his arse when he was eleven is still there.

But he's a stain you can't afford to scrub at, because you'd risk rubbing out even more vibrancy from everything else, vibrancy that you must preserve, vibrancy that holds all importance over a stupid splotch, no matter how lurid. So he remains, as abominable an anomaly as spilled unicorn's blood, wrong, wrong, wrong. Or perhaps he is not-pretty poison, quicksilver.

He is not a constant. He is not cleansing, no matter how pleasant the whiff you don't catch of his citrusy soap is, but slippery, greasy.

He is a catalyst, a disrupter, and he is neither wanted nor needed.

You don't watch him go. You don't follow the geometry of his squared shoulders under his tailored robes. You don't center your gaze between his shoulder-blades where the fabric stretches taut.

Your opinion of him is firmly situated on neutral ground. You have mixed pasts but clear futures and you don't need to have an opinion. Your reason for remaining in the middle isn't because you're pulled equally by two extremes.

You don't look or think, then. You don't debate jabbing a knife there between his haughty-not-hot shoulders. You don't contemplate running behind him and brushing a kiss there in that one vulnerable hollow.

You don't stare after him as he rounds a corner, not to see the arrow-like dimples that bookend his etched smirk. You don't wonder what his disdain might taste like. You don't wonder whether your nonexistent desires have the same astringent flavor.

You don't cry the words into the crowd or when you are back home, alone.

You don't voice words that are not there, not filling your mouth with urgency and not pushing your lips for release.

There are no words there, none, no words that lurk behind familiar slander, no words like knives cutting at your tongue the longer they remain held in.

That night, you don't arch off the mattress and muffle your misery in your dream-damp pillow. You don't wipe trembling, sullied fingers on the twisted sheets. You don't clench your hands in fists around uncertainty, because you are very sure of everything. You don't still ache with need, not after being sated twice.

Your heart does not thrum like a string, not plucked by raw memory of his angled body and angled words.

You never have, you never will, you never do. Surely you possess more common sense, more sense of self-preservation than that. Surely. You don't.

**XxXxX**

_Author's Note: Yes, uploading three drabbles at once. Crazy, no? It makes me feel accomplished, though._

_Anyway, this piece basically just wrote itself. I'm quite proud of it, frankly._

_Penny for your thoughts? I'd like to hear what you think (readers, not Harry—although if he would like to give input, that's quite alright, too)._


End file.
